Naming Conventions
by amor-remanet
Summary: While Sam's at Stanford, Dean keeps him posted on certain... exploits. Sam/Jess, Dean/OFCs.


The first time it happened, Sam's phone went off in a freshman orientation lecture and, even after what he and Dad had said to each other, he reflexively checked it just to make sure that everything was okay.

Upon seeing Dean's name, he opened the text, expecting to see some notice that weird things were going on around the Stanford campus and a warning to look out for himself if he wasn't going to nut up and protect his fellow students like a real hunter. Instead, he got a topless picture of some redhead with breasts that had to be fake. It was subtitled, "Dude, check out Nantucket."

"Nantucket is an island, Dean," Sam texted back, fuming silently.

After a few minutes, Dean countered with: "Yeah, I know. But I couldn't remember her name, so now she's Nantucket." Sam sighed and checked his watch; it was only six in the evening on Nantucket. Couldn't Dean just keep it in his pants, or failing that, get less drunk.

Three weeks later, in the middle of his biology lab, Sam got the text, "How about Tupelo? How much tail are you getting in college? I could fix you two up…" accompanied by a photo — taken from behind and, Sam could only imagine, without the poor girl's consent — of a brunette with curvy hips and a nice ass. Sam sent back a text about how the purpose of going to college was to get a pre-law degree so he could go to law school, not to sleep with everyone who got within ten feet of him.

"And besides that, Tupelo could sue you for sexual harassment if she didn't agree to have that photo taken," Sam added in a separate text. He wasn't sure if it was true or not, but he wanted Dean to think that it was.

Dean texted back, "Bitch," and then went silent for a month-and-a-half.

The radio silence ended with a leggy blonde with elaborate tattoos on her shoulders. Unlike Tupelo, she'd clearly been complicit in Dean's photographic experiment, and while he was supposed to be listening to Dr. Andrews lecture on Dostoevsky, Sam's eyes fell on her pixellated everything and his face went bright red. "Get an eyeful of Nashville, brother," Dean said. "Thought she might be hunter from the ink, but she's just best friends with a theology student. How about that? Know what you should do?"

Against his better judgment, Sam texted back, "What, Dean? What should I do?"

"Her friend," said Dean. "She's nerdy and desperate, you're perfect for each other."

Sam didn't respond. Two weeks later, tiny Jackson, her from-a-bottle-red hair, and her pouty lips showed up in his inbox. After her were: New Orleans, who had curls and had been photographed while she slept; Raleigh, whose hair fell to her waist; Arlington, who looked like Dean had found her at a Siouxsie and the Banshees show; Akron, who'd apparently fucked Dean in the bathroom of the pizza place where she worked, while still wearing her uniform; Lansing, who'd dyed her hair pink; St. Paul, who had a rosary wrapped around her wrist; and Des Moines, who had a tattoo of a panda on her belly button.

Fargo was the last straw. Sam sat in an upscale coffee shop, waiting for Jessica Moore, who'd been introduced to him at a party, who was a friend of a couple different friends, and who he really wanted to like him as more than just as vague acquaintance. Thinking it might be from her, Sam opened the text without looking at the sender: "We did it in her car," Dean explained, about the busty redhead who had freckles practically everywhere. "It was freaking freezing. I've officially fucked a girl in flannel and a Hooters shirt."

Sam sighed and texted back: "I love how you send me nude pics of girls you're fucking and name them by which city they're in instead of their name. "This is Nashville, this is Tupelo, this is Jackson...""

"I know you love it, little brother," Dean said. "Someone's got to help you get your pervy, voyeuristic kicks."

"You know what, Dean?" Sam texted without thinking about it. "Fuck you. I got told to stay gone, I'm staying gone. So just take your stupid sex pictures and stick them up your ass."

And then Dean went quiet for two years.

He broke the silence on Halloween, during one moment that Sam caught alone before going with Jess to a party. Sighing, Sam opened the message and got treated to an eyeful of a girl he knew he'd seen before. He couldn't remember her name, but they'd been in a lecture together before, he was sure of it. "Dude," Dean's message read. "Check out Palo Alto."

Sam's chest clenched up. His head felt like it he'd submerged it in water. …No, Dean couldn't have been here. He wouldn't. They'd gone their separate ways too long ago.


End file.
